Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Sunday Morning

I woke up at a girlfriend's house, only she wasn't a girlfriend anymore, though I was desperately hoping that she would be again. And it wasn't actually her house. She was renting a room from a friend's mom, the same friend she'd gone to Europe with and fallen in love and lust with and done it in such a romantic, frantic, exciting situation that I didn't feel I could possibly compete.

There I was, waking up in her bed, which used to be his bed, in his childhood room full of his records. I wasn't there because things had gone well with her the night before. I was there because I smoked some weed with my employer and it put me on my ass, gave me the spins, made me want desperately to be unconscious. She let me crash at her place out of sympathy and probably with some annoyance.

I felt better in the morning. She woke me up as she headed out to work, told me to stay as long as I wanted and to lock the door behind me when I left. She hugged me, and planted a small kiss on my lips.

The sun was coming in the windows in storybook fashion and it felt like a new day in every way imaginable. I flipped through his records and came across an album with Andy Warhol's signature and an image of a banana on the otherwise blank, white cover.

I put the record on the turntable and the first sparse notes, played on a xylophone grabbed my attention as Sunday Morning came on. I sat and listened to the perfect song for that surprisingly perfect morning. I made a note to check out more of this album later, but for now I wanted this song to be the soundtrack for my day. I walked to the bus stop, enjoying the sun on my face and feeling very much alive.

More pointless true stories here.

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